Backup Plan
by thedoctorlek
Summary: Excerpt: He's not wearing his normal brown pinstriped suit and tie. He's fully donned in dark pants, a black V-necked jumper, and a leather jacket. These—these are the clothes he regenerated in; these are the clothes that he wore in his old body. Very PWP and very adult. Cover drawn by the (AMAZING) outcastfromgallifrey.


This was born purely out of my, _ahem_, liking for how Ten looks wearing Nine's clothes. (And for my liking of two certain people having a nice shag)

Enjoy!

* * *

He walks into the console room in the wrong clothes.

She doesn't notice at first, busy as she is trying to get the TARDIS to tell her where they are going today. She peers intently at one of the screens attached to a dozen wires and murmurs to the ship— a bit like the Doctor if she's honest. The TARDIS whirls and beeps, and that's when she hears the sharp click of shoes against the grating and the rustle of his clothes as he comes into the room and crosses his arms. His gaze settles between her shoulder blades—she can_ feel_ it, tickling her spine—and she should look up, acknowledge him—but she doesn't, not at first.

There's a moment of silence before he clears his throat. "You, Rose Tyler, were not in bed this morning."

"And _you _were. _Sleeping_." She grins, poking her tongue out between her teeth while keeping her eyes on the screen. He doesn't often sleep in and on the rare occasions that he does, she can't help but tease him.

"Mm," he intones. "That's wonderful— that you got up before me, and all, but I had _plans_ for this morning. Brilliant plans." There's a pause, like he's waiting for her to figure something out, and then— "Of the fucking variety," he clarifies.

"Oh?" Her cheeks grow a little warm. "What— what would those plans include, then?"

"They've changed," he informs her. "Us being not-in-bed and all, it shook things up. 'Sides, I've had this… backup plan, for a while." He takes another step closer to her, and that's when she gets her first hint. His shoes click against the floor in an entirely un-trainer-like manner, and then— she sees a flash of black in her peripheral vision.

_What?_

She spins around, finally looking at him— and her jaw drops open.

He's not wearing his normal brown pinstriped suit and tie. He's fully donned in dark pants, a black V-necked jumper, and a leather jacket. These—these are the clothes he regenerated in; these are the clothes that he wore in his old body.

"Hullo," he says.

He grins slyly and—she can see his last regeneration in that grin, in that twinkle in his eyes.

"H-hello," she returns, somehow, and stares at him.

Every detail jumps out at her. Everything from his mussed-up hair, to his thin torso, to his long, long legs. His grin is smug— she can almost hear him say something along the lines of _you checking me out, Rose?_

She most definitely _is._ She's always—ever since her teen years, _especially _since she ran away with him—had a thing for leather. She's never told him that, but—his grin indicates that he somehow _knows_.

The whole outfit is a little too big for him— her eyes linger on that detail longer than they should, because it _shouldn't _be attractive, it really shouldn't. His trousers cling loosely to his hips, barely held on by the belt fastened around his waist, and his jumper— despite its too-large size— somehow hugs his skinny frame. She also notices, straight off, that his shirt is V-necked, that his entire throat is exposed. She swallows. His neck has never been this visible when he's been fully clothed.

The leather though– that's what caps it off, she thinks. Heat courses through her as she studies the smooth and pliable material—clinging to his back while hanging loosely around his front. His hands are on his hips, and he's grinning, like everything is _normal_. The jacket seems to encompass him, and is almost a focal point for the eyes.

She tries to pull herself back together, to remember exactly what they were talking about. _Said hello, don't wanna repeat that—plans! That's right, we were talking about plans._

She swallows and takes a step closer to him, stopping next to one of the coral columns. "So," she somehow manages. "So, you said you had some ideas for how this is gonna play out?"

"Yeah," he replies, voice low. "Yeah, I do." He springs, or slides—somehow just _moves_ in front of her with a vaguely familiar manic energy. It's almost as if the regeneration energy from before clung to the clothes he's wearing and has eased back into him. She wonders if it's possible, for all that vigor to re-enter his binaray vascular system, to run through his body and give him some of the original zeal that he'd had earlier.

She could pull him down for a snog, he's that close. Instead, she reaches out a hand, placing it between both of his hearts. She did this before, after he regenerated—but this is entirely different. The quadruple beat echoes through her hand and she looks at him, just _looks_. His face fills her view—eyes big and hair wild.

He doesn't move, for several seconds. Just stays in her space and looks at her. His face slowly grows a little more serious, as he studies her intently, memorizing something about her. He places his hands on her hips and his nimble fingers dance along the cloth of her shirt. Then they dip beneath it and touch her bare skin. He's hesitant, for some reason, and Rose doesn't know why. They've done this too many times to count.

"Rose Tyler," he whispers and—his accent. It's not his usual Estuary; it holds hints of a gruff Northern-ness. The O in her name is pronounced deep in his throat, the end of _Tyler_ lilts up more than usual.

Something _zings_ inside her, a hunger for more. Her eyes flicker closed for a second as she imagines pulling him down, running her tongue along the seam of his lips and the inside of his mouth. But she stays still, letting the ache between her thighs grow stronger. By some unspoken agreement, she's allowing him take the lead.

She tries to say something, but words are hard to form. His gaze fixates on her, eyes dark, fully dilated. Slowly, his left hand moves up to gently cup her face, his thumb dusting over her cheek. He leans forward and their foreheads touch, and there's—a sort of _connection,_ between them. It's always there, of course; they've clicked since day one, but _this._ She feels it pound through her veins, the—the love she feels for him, transcending through their differences and his changes and everything that's happened to them.

He stares at her for a second longer, then his eyes drift closed and he lightly presses his lips to hers. It's soft and tender at first, just lips against lips, but after a minute or two of simple kissing, his right hand reaches down to cup her bum and his tongue dips into her mouth, a sense of urgency developing in his touches.

He angles her face up, to better capture her lower lip between his own, sucking firmly— she gasps aloud, rising on her toes to meet him. Rose slides her arms under his jacket so that the wool is against one side of her arm and the slickness of the leather against the other, tantalizing, teasing. He groans aloud as she pulls them closer together and grinds her hips into his erection.

He pulls back suddenly, his lips swollen and red. "Rose," he practically growls, and then says her name again, "_Rose._"

She unwraps her arms from around his waist and runs her hands down the front of the jacket, grasping the lapels. "Here?" she asks. Not the first time they've had sex in the console room.

He doesn't respond, just ducks his head to snog her again and push her backwards until she bumps into the captain's chair. "_Here,_" he says. "_Now_."

Something in his gaze tells her that she should get her pants off within the next thirty seconds.

She kicks off her shoes and socks with a smooth motion and fumbles with the clasp of her trousers, fingers tripping around the zipper. He growls impatiently and moves in to help her after a second or two, but his hands only manage to get her jeans stuck on her ankles and caught around her heels.

"_Fuck_," he swears, voice rough. "Your underwear—off. Now."

There would be times that she'd draw this out with lingering looks and slow motions, but her self-control is small now. Her desire—to have him inside her, filling her up, to fuck him in the clothes he's wearing—it's too strong to hold back anything. She pulls off her half soaked knickers with a smooth motion, tossing them behind the chair.

"What about you then?" Rose says. "Want to get off your trousers?"

He nods and pulls down his zipper roughly. He easily frees his erection from his trousers as he's—he's not wearing pants. Rose raises her eyebrows.

"What?"

"No underwear?"

He grins then, smugly. "_Well._ Wanted to keep the outfit as accurate as possible."

"Wait, you, in your old body—?"

"From time to time."

She gapes, trying to process that fact— and in the moment when she's completely off guard, he pounces on her in a blur of black leather and cloth. He buries his head in the crook of her neck, lips devouring—that's the only way to describe it, _devouring_—her skin. His tongue skates along her pulse point and he sucks with his lips and teeth, leaving a mark. His right hand plunges between her legs, brushing her clit and entrance as he feels if she's ready yet. She almost cries out when his hand leaves—but then—

He slides into her, rough and forceful. She can't keep back her shout this time. Her hands fly to his hair, pulling lightly, before she reaches down to grip his biceps. The spicy aroma of his leather jacket fills her senses—the smell of time and his old body and this new one too, all mixed together.

The world spins around her, and it's just—them. Only them, in the entire universe. He's all that she can feel, all that she see, and touch, and the only sounds that she hears is the jacket flapping around them, and his grunts and her cries.

"Rose, Rose, please—" He grips the side of the chair for better leverage. "Closer, I—"

She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into her. With that, he suddenly becomes more forceful, more urgent. With each thrust, he hits a spot inside of her that somehow just _does_ it—she gasps, almost _there_, she's so _close_—

She grasps the right lapel of his coat with her left hand, keeping her other on his upper arm. "Need you—"

"What, tell me," he grunts, urgently.

"Touch me," she asks, or begs, or commands—even she can't tell. He complies, rubbing her clit in a circular motion, his arm pressing against her inner thigh, the cuff of the sleeve sometimes brushing against the small bundle of nerves. The smooth leather feels cold against her skin, cold enough to make her hotter.

"Fuck, Rose— _fuck,_" he swears, as she tightens her legs around him and squeezes. Once again, his voice has a trace of Northern-ness about it, and that—that is it. She comes with a shout, everything shattering behind her eyes, all sounds fading into the distance except the triple beat of their hearts combined echoing through her head. He pumps in and out of her two or three more times before spilling over himself. He continues to move inside her for a several strokes, helping them both ride out their orgasms, before collapsing on top of her in a sweaty heap.

She breathes heavily, wrapping her arms around his torso, rubbing her hands up and down the leather. He laughs lightly, after a minute or two, and leans back to brush aside a lock of her hair. "Switch spots?"

"Yeah," she agrees, still breathless. She stands up and he sits heavily on the chair as she collapses into his lap. Rose snuggles into his chest, resting her cheek against his jumper. Her hands play along the front of the jacket, idly.

"How long've you been planning that, then?" She grins.

He looks serious, a bit hesitant too—it's almost a minute before he responds. "Think back to at least a year." He tugs at his ear, before dropping his hand to her still-bare waist.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Before—before you regenerated?" Everything clicks into place then—the suddenness, the randomness, the way he had behaved. Then she grins.

"This was a _fantasy_ of yours?"

He smiles softly. "You could say that. Ever since—Ever since World War Two, I wanted…" He clears his throat. "Was scared to do it before… And after we got together, I was waiting for the right moment. Wanted it to be perfect."

"And… Was it? Perfect, I mean."

He grins, cocking his head to the side. "Oh, I'd have to say that it was…" He pauses, and she can hear his response before it even comes out of his mouth. "It was fantastic."

They both laugh lightly, and she buries her head into his chest, breathing in his scent. The jacket feels cool against her cheek, and she feels— sated, fulfilled, satisfied. Content just to stay like this, for a while yet.

"It certainly was."


End file.
